


Dial It Up

by toomuchplor



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Public Sex, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>don't</i>
  <br/>
  <i>seriously, fuck off</i>
  <br/>
  <i>give it back Eames</i>
  <br/>
  <i>T----</i>
  <br/>
  <i>uesday 2 p.m. Schirmer</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dial It Up

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt by anon: "Eames goes down on Arthur while he's in the middle of an important conference call!" Elaborated upon by starbolin: "Conference call [...] he steals Arthur's tie while Arthur is talking and drapes it around his own neck while he blows him (barechested obvs)". Thanks to annejumps for a lightning-fast beta.

“Have the hotel staff brought up the dry-cleaning yet?” asks Eames as he comes into the hotel room, already unbuttoning his oxford. “I had to spill a drink to lift that key and this was my last clean”—

—“Warwick,” Arthur says, raising a hand to stop Eames talking. His knees are splayed wide and he’s leaning back far as he can, enthroned in their hotel room’s sole rolling desk chair. He’s got his phone to his ear, sitting perpendicular to the little wooden desk, his notebook open at his elbow. “Nathan Warwick. Mister Schirmer is expecting my call.” He sounds at once perfectly bored and impatient. “I’m afraid I can’t reschedule,” Arthur says, looking at his wrist, where there is no watch to be seen. “This is the only time I have to speak with him today. My whole week is looking – oh, he will? Wonderful. Yes, I can hold for a minute.” He waits a moment and then cups his hand over the receiver and lowers it. “No drycleaning,” Arthur says. “You can borrow one of my pajama shirts if you’re desperate.”

“I have to be desperate, do I?” asks Eames, shrugging out of his wine-splashed oxford, then yanking his vest off too when he sees it’s also spattered with patches of red. When he looks up again he’s expecting Arthur to be wholly reabsorbed in listening to the hold music, mentally preparing for his assault on Mister Schirmer’s timetable.

Arthur, instead, is staring at Eames’ bare chest. He is gratifyingly slack-jawed.

It’s been a hectic week for them, not much in the way of downtime.

Before Eames can do much more than cock one hip and grin, Arthur snaps back to attention and lifts the phone to his ear. “Terry,” he says, “Nathan Warwick here, we met last year at the conference in Fresno. I’m with a little start-up called Tinderbox Technologies here in – ha, yes, I thought maybe you would recognize the – anyway, I’m calling with something of an urgent inquiry and I hoped you might be able to,” and Arthur goes on smoothly, doodling something in his notebook. If it weren’t for the sudden nervous hook of his right foot over one spoke of the chair base, Eames wouldn’t suspect Arthur’s mind ever drifted off-task.

Eames is nothing if not observant, of course. 

He takes the long way round the room, circling behind Arthur. He lingers by the bar for a moment, pours himself a drink from a tiny bottle. There’s a half bag of peanuts that Arthur probably opened in lieu of a proper lunch. Eames takes a few peanuts, pops them in his mouth to chase down the last of his drink. 

A few feet away, Arthur continues to speak in that pompous self-aggrandizing tone; Eames honestly has no idea if Arthur thinks of himself as assuming a character or if this is just how Arthur _is_ when he’s pitching to a client, all those pauses where he pretends to listen for a moment before clearing his throat and jumping in with another bit of bait. They need a private meeting with Schirmer, that’s all. It shouldn’t be too difficult, and yet all their plans hinge on Arthur’s success in this one call.

“We absolutely can provide that kind of security,” Arthur is saying. Eames walks up behind him, leans over Arthur’s shoulder to see what he’s writing: _don’t_.

Eames licks the peanut salt off his index finger and slips his hand into the back of Arthur’s shirt collar.

 _seriously, fuck off_ Arthur writes, slapdash. “No, I know what Kirsch is offering, I’ve heard his presentation three different places,” Arthur says, “but for something that’s comprehensive enough to cover your – pardon my French – your ass, Terry, you need to – I see. Listen, full disclosure, I’ve had this conversation with another couple of people with some of your competitors and – no, no, I really couldn’t say who I”—

Eames pulls his hand out again and reaches round Arthur’s straight serious neck. Wiggles his narrow little half-Windsor knot tighter and then yanks it loose in a stroke of his hand before Arthur can knock him out of the way with an irritated swat. When Eames pulls his arm safely away, he’s got Arthur’s silk tie in his fist, and it slithers out from Arthur’s collar with a sly zipping noise.

 _give it back Eames_ writes Arthur.

“No,” says Eames, “mine.” And he loops the tie round his neck, flings the narrow end over his shoulder like a flamboyant theatre buff, comes round to the front of Arthur’s chair and stands there toying with the point of the wide end, angling it and dragging it back and forth on the skin just over his navel.

“I,” says Arthur, trapped. He has a thing for Eames’ navel. He blinks hard and looks at the wall behind Eames’ shoulder. “I can tell you that I’m expecting a request for a tender. That’s all I’m saying. But between you and me, I’m much more interested in”—

Eames unbuttons the top of Arthur’s collar, which looks weird all neat and taut without the punctuation of his tie anyway. Arthur’s throat is bare and prickled with dark stubble. In the hollow under his adam’s apple Eames can see the bump of Arthur’s heartbeat. It’s a critical phone call, but Arthur’s dropped his pen now, and his eyes are fluttering to half-mast, like he’s given up the fight already.

“I can hold them off for a couple of days,” Arthur says, “but I need you to give me something concrete here.”

Eames closes his hand over something decidedly non-abstract, pushing at the front of Arthur’s trousers. He squeezes, pleased.

“Mm,” says Arthur, and changes it hastily to, “no, I see.” His eyes blink open, dark and steady, but rather than pushing Eames away and giving him a deathly glare, Arthur just reaches down, unbuttons his trousers and spreads his flies open.

 _Really?_ mouths Eames, amused.

 _Now_ Arthur shows displeasure, throwing a slight frown at Eames, nodding downwards. Adding a lift of hips for good measure, in case Eames missed his meaning. “But I really think involving more people will just slow things down,” Arthur says. “I mean, I was given to understand you had the authority to make this kind of call, but – no, I don’t mean to imply – of course. It’s fine. I’m telling you, I have something else lined up. I just thought”—

Eames works Arthur’s cock out and gets down to his knees. He pushes his face into the bend of Arthur’s hips, that wide saucy vee of splayed thighs. Breathes there for a second, until Arthur’s hand lands on Eames’ head and shoves it over, closer to Arthur’s rising cock.

“Let me be completely frank,” says Arthur, putting his palm on Eames’ forehead and levering him up. Once Eames catches on and holds steady, making eye contact, Arthur slips his fingers down and pushes them into Eames’ pliant mouth, opening it up. “You need me. You know you need me. Let’s not be coy about that little fact.” Arthur withdraws his fingers and lifts his cock to Eames’ mouth. 

Eames, who has never been called coy, goes down very cheerfully, deep as he can take Arthur. Arthur ticks out a small sigh that could be exasperation at whatever Schirmer is saying. It’s not exasperation, but it could be.

“I can do this better than anyone out there,” says Arthur, tangling fingers in Eames’ hair and holding him still so he can fuck into Eames’ mouth, little hungry but restrained curls of motion. “Come on, we both know it.”

Eames sucks and draws shaky breaths through his nose, suddenly turned on past the telling of it. What sounded grating and condescending from across the hotel room sounds desperately hot and commanding with a cock in Eames’ mouth. Eames closes his eyes and licks around Arthur’s cock head, bobs it against the sweet soft inside of his cheek. When he looks up, Arthur’s still staring down at him, rapt, serious, intense.

“Give me five minutes,” Arthur says, hoarse. He clears his throat in a quick harsh cough. “Five minutes in a room with you and I swear you’ll know you made the right choice.”

Eames has a rhythm now, and it’s fast, perfectly designed to get Arthur off as efficiently as possible – not that it’ll be difficult, judging by the feel of Arthur on his tongue, the jump of Arthur’s belly muscles, the involuntary jolt of his hips.

“Come on,” Arthur says, low, and if he’s meant to be talking to Schirmer he’s lost the plot a bit, because he seems less like he’s giving the hard sell and more like he’s telling Eames to suck harder and move faster. “Yeah.”

Eames looks up at Arthur and lifts his eyebrows meaningfully, but doesn’t stop what he’s doing.

“I can,” Arthur says, speaking too quickly, “Tuesday, I can definitely meet,” and he fumbles for his pen, puts the tip to paper. _T_ , he scrawls – Eames can make it out from down on his knees, that and the long jagged line that slides away from the letter and down the margin of the page. Arthur holds the phone away from his mouth and makes a hurt expression trying to hold his breath and come at the same time. _Fuck_ , he mouths noiselessly, and half-grins at Eames with relief as the pleasure pulses into something a little less intense. “Sorry, did you say two?” he says into the phone, only a little breathless, like he’s plausibly excited at having landed the meeting.

Eames leans back and lets the last couple of pulses smear his lips, mostly because he wants to make Arthur laugh. Arthur doesn’t laugh, but he clearly wants to. He pushes his come over Eames’ mouth with his left thumb, glances back and finishes writing the appointment in the notebook. “No,” he says, “I know a place. I’ll call you with the details Tuesday morning.”

The phone snaps shut and clatters to the desk, and then Arthur’s taking hold of both ends of his tie – still slung round Eames’ neck – and hauling up on it. Eames goes; the desk chair is crap, and it creaks and shimmies and rolls back a little when Eames lands on Arthur’s lap, thighs splayed across Arthur’s hips. “Well done, you,” Eames congratulates him.

“I liked that,” Arthur says, poking his chin up so he can kiss Eames’ messy mouth. “Can you do that for all my conference calls? Makes me feel all-powerful, having you on your knees sucking my dick.”

Eames kisses Arthur urgently, liking the idea, a bit frustrated because he’s thrumming with need and Arthur’s full of post-coital ease, lazy kisses and slowing breath. “Let’s swap places,” Eames suggests, pulling away.

“Sure,” says Arthur, pliant and happy. He’s got the tip of his thumb in the fold of Eames’ navel, flirting the rim of it up and down. “What, do you have an important call to make, too?”

“Well, the library does keep calling about my overdue fines,” Eames says. “And I’ve been meaning to ring my mum.”

“How about I get undressed and you fuck me on the bed, instead?” Arthur says, leaning in close, half-whispering.

“Alright,” says Eames, “but you’re going to have to explain to the library.”


End file.
